As you all no doubt are aware, I’m a keen proponent of DOMINATION. It was originally written by Sun Tzu in “The Art of War”, along with a lot of bollocks about pretending to be weak (no motherfucker is going to make me, THE BIG BRAND, feign being a pussy), that mental strength is as important as physical strength.
With this in mind, when on some downtime from moulding my impressive physique for DOMINATION, I like to exercise the big muscle between my ears: my brain. The added bonus of this is that a suitcase full of books is inordinately heavy, and so I can slip in a cheeky workout when waiting for Delon to clear customs.
Anyway, the other day when everyone else was off at the pub, I stayed in and read a good book. I’d tried to encourage Chris “Ginsters” Ashton to do this as well, but he told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business. I’m not convinced they’ve got proper education in the north, so I think he was just overcompensating for not being as literate as someone who attended one of England’s finest educational establishments, like moi.
So, the first book that I’ve read here in Kiwiland is George Orwell’s Animal Farm. It’s only a thin book, so I thought I’d start there and get it out of the way, before aiming my mighty intellect at worthier tomes. It’s only a fucking kiddies book after all- I mean, it’s about talking animals, like Animals of Farthing Wood, or Watership Down, and nobody claims that they’re books for adults.
Basically, this is what happens: there’s a farm, and the animals come to DOMINATE it, particularly the pigs, Napoleon (named after a famous Welsh poet), Snowball (I’m sure that’s racialist) and Squealer (mental note: great name for Youngs, that’ll improve the WORLD CLASS BANTER TM). Shit happens, there’s a battle, and eventually the pigs come to rule in the same way that the humans do. There are horses, sheep, dogs, chickens and whatnot as well.
This book is shit, basically. I just couldn’t give less of a fuck about animals, particularly ones that don’t play Rugby or work out. The pigs even get pissed at one point, which I’m very much against now (my body is a temple, I’m thinking like the Taj Mahal in Guildford). Ginsters tells me that it’s something called an allegory, but I’m fucked if I know what that means, and I suspect he’s just making words up to pay me back for the piece of WORLD CLASS BANTER TM that I put on him the other day (I dipped the least impressive, but most active, muscle in my body in his morning yoghurt).
And what the fuck is up with the commandments? The book finishes with just one left:” All Animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others”. This is bollocks. Animals clearly aren’t equal. Take me, for example, I’m a magnificent beast, the king of the jungle and there is no way that anyone else is my equal.
No . Way. If a single fucker disagrees with me, then I’ll lay the DOMINATION down on them big time.
At the end of the day, I just don’t care about the antics of animals. Sheep are only interesting to me (given that I’m neither Welsh nor Kiwi) when they’re dead, roasted and served up with a bit of mint sauce on my plate. Pigs are basically sausages in waiting, and I’ve never met a horse I couldn’t headbutt into submission.
I’m not sure that reading a book as piss-poor as this one is adequate preparation for the DOMINATION that will be forthcoming on those skirt wearing soap-dodgers from North of Hadrian’s Wall, so I’m going to rip through something better, maybe an Arnold Schwarzenegger biography, as there’s a man who understands muscle properly.